


Cry Wraith

by busaikko



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancients, Episode s01e19 The Siege (1), Episode: s01e20 The Siege (2), Episode: s02e01 The Siege (3), M/M, McShep Match Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busaikko/pseuds/busaikko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wraith are coming, and Atlantis asks for help. (AU from S1 "The Gift". Some dialogue taken from "The Pegasus Project"; need-to-know SG1 canon is that I didn't make up Ganos Lal or what she is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry Wraith

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by reddwarfer <3 and additional checking by the McShep Match mods <3

> Sheppard: The doctor gave her a clean bill of health.  
> Bates: And that's good to hear, Sir, but if she can't control how the Wraith use her —  
> Sheppard: You don't know that.  
> Bates: That's right, we don't. She saw everything they saw. Who's to say they can't do the same with her,  
>  see what we see? If she's been compromised in any way —  
> (The Gift)  
> 

* * *

"I'm sending Teyla and a delegation of her people to Proculus," John interrupted, and was immediately angry with himself for telling Bates before Teyla, and angry at Bates for... doing his job. "I've been thinking for a while that we gave up too easy with Chaya Sar."

Bates, thankfully, didn't look pleased. He scowled instead, as if this idea was unsavory. "It might get her Spidey-senses to stop tingling," he conceded, and John could see him mentally flipping through all the possible outcomes. "So you're taking her off your team?"

John forced his breathing steady, holding down the anger. "No one's _off_ my team," he corrected, almost patient. "But we don't have a whole bunch of off-world missions scheduled while we're facing down the Wraith. I released McKay back to the science division— _for the time being_ —because that's where _he_ can help most right now, and Ford's got a siege to prepare for, so that means Teyla's the only person I have _left_ to deploy, and she's a negotiator. She should be negotiating." He held up a finger. "Do _not_ tell anyone until it's official from Weir, or so help me...."

Bates gave John a hard look, and then a reluctant nod. "Yes, sir," he said, before turning on his heel and leaving John and his anger behind him.

Teyla was pissed when John told her. She clenched her jaw and stalked up and down the practice room, her bantos sticks spinning in her hands with enough force to break bones if a human was stupid enough to get in her way.

John stood his ground. He reminded her of what a great place Proculus was, and how safe.

"Did you not say in your report that Athar was only permitted to protect her own people?" Teyla said from behind him, and John felt a rush of air as one of her sticks swept way too close to his back for comfort.

John tipped his head to the side and shrugged, spreading his hands, trying to project sincerity. "I'll give you a jumper," he said. "Not sure I can spare a pilot, but I told Carson to give the gene therapy to up to ten Athosians at your discretion." He glimpsed a flash of Teyla's skirts, and half-turned, so he could see Teyla's face. "You and anyone else with the Wraith—" he waved a hand, not sure what to call it "—the _gift_ , maybe you guys should just say no. I don't think mixing up the genes would be a good idea."

"Should your people remove to an Alpha Site," Teyla started, and then stopped. Underneath the controlled anger John saw her hurt.

"If we are alive we'll send a message through the gate," John promised. "Look. We've had twenty scientists working three shifts a day on the Lagrange point satellite, and while obviously we can't test it, Grodin thinks we can take out a lot of Wraith. Ford and his buddies think we might even be able to get that downed Wraith supply ship in the air now that Elizabeth's able to translate their writing. But," he added, raising a finger because he'd gone too far, and he could see by the set of Teyla's jaw that she was back to thinking he just wanted her out of his way, "it's a lot of _if_ s and _maybe_ s, when we saw with our own eyes what Athar can provide."

"Perhaps it will be best that the delegation you send will not speak so lightly of the beliefs of the people you wish to negotiate with." With a resolute clack, Teyla grasped her sticks in her left hand, the signal that the sparring session was finished. John hastened to stow his gear and grab up his stuff, not wanting Teyla to disappear on him.

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" he asked, following Teyla out into the corridor, jogging a little to keep up with her purposeful strides.

She raised her chin. "I am angry with John Sheppard," she said thoughtfully. "But I have been given to understand that sometimes a leader cannot—should not—allow their personal feelings and relationships to influence their decisions."

Yeah, John was going to have to do some serious groveling when this was over. He gave Teyla a smile that felt fake and said a fast goodbye. He ran full-out for Elizabeth's office, wanting to be the first to tell her about all the great unilateral decisions he'd made that morning in his free time.

She lectured him for ninety minutes straight, and when John left he felt weirdly similar to the way he had when he'd gone through the stargate in Colorado, knowingly walking into a situation where he had no friends or allies. He wished Rodney was around. Rodney would understand, and he wouldn't be sympathetic so much as bitterly amused. None of them—not Elizabeth, not Rodney, and not John—had ever held a command before which involved so much relentless and pointless loss of life, so little hope.

Rodney had named the satellite weapon after Gall and Abrams, and before sending the databurst to Earth he'd spent an evening with John watching the videos Elizabeth had recorded for the families of the Atlantis dead and getting half-drunk on watered-down rotgut bought from a guy Teyla knew.

Rodney would think John was dumb as a box of rocks for asking Chaya for help. Maybe it was a good thing Rodney was fifteen hours away, undoubtedly driving Grodin insane right now. Rodney had a way of winding John up that probably wasn't good. Under the circumstances, maybe it was the worst possible thing.

Sumner had assumed John was queer, and while he never made any direct accusation in the short time they'd worked together, he'd made it clear that if John stepped so much as one toe out of line he'd have no problem making John's life hell. John figured Sumner had accepted him in large part because threatening his 2IC with disgrace would be easier than the tedium of building a trust-based rapport. John had a bad habit of smiling when he was nervous, and he'd had the sinking, doomed feeling that Sumner'd misinterpreted his apprehension as defiance.

Early on, Ford had misinterpreted one of those smiles masking nerves as a come-on, to John's horror—God only knew what warnings Sumner'd given Ford about him. It made John feel ill. Rodney accused John of flirting with everyone and anything, up to and including holograms and puddlejumpers. Rodney was definitely right about the puddlejumpers, John had to admit, but he hated the measured ways Rodney and Ford watched him. The more they did, the more the pained smile stuck to his face, and he ended up being propositioned by beautiful twenty-five year old guys and taking a half-Ascended Ancient on a picnic.

Rodney had been furious with him for that. He'd cornered John in the jumper bay and demanded if it was that important for him to establish _heterosexual credibility_.

John'd still been coming down off the effervescent high of Chaya's Ancient mind-meld, and he'd said, "Yeah," like he meant _duh_ —because Rodney'd have to be an idiot not to know how important it was for John to know that Ford and Bates had his back.

Rodney's eyes had narrowed, and John had grinned widely, not nervous at all. That's what he paid Rodney for, after all: making the brilliant deductions.

"Are you on drugs, or did you just get laid?" Rodney asked suspiciously, and that wasn't a question John knew how to answer honestly in a way that wouldn't get him in trouble. After a moment, Rodney sighed and grabbed his elbow. "Right," he'd said grimly, and steered John towards the transporter. "I'm volunteering you to play human pincushion with Carson."

John didn't break free of Rodney's grip, even though he could have. He didn't defend himself, either, beyond a few weak protests of _McKay_. He did think, as Rodney shoved him under the medscanner and folded his arms vindictively, that he could grow to like Rodney far too much. He could probably even fall hard for Rodney, he decided, and the post-Chaya afterglow had evaporated just like that.

Rodney found out about Teyla's mission in the worst and most dramatic way possible, on his return to Atlantis just prior to activating the satellite weapon.

The Proculus gate dialed in, and before John could explain that they had diplomatic relations now—of a sort—Halling brought the jumper through and Teyla unloaded a delegation of Proculans in the gate room. They were all wearing traditional gauzy sarong-type skirts and barely-there tops, and had brightly colored jewelry and tattoos.

John kind of got whiplash going from a meeting with Elizabeth and Zelenka about how to destroy the city thoroughly, to hanging out with Teyla's half-naked friends from paradise. They all looked awed by the windows and the spacious room, even though Atlantis' less-tropical climate control had them shivering.

"These are the people of Athar," Teyla said, and her polite introductions sound like a reprimand. Rodney's eyes jerked guiltily back to her face, and he rallied enough to nod at each one of them in turn.

"Teyla? What's going on?" Elizabeth asked, using what John thought of as her 'mom' voice. He couldn't recall anyone besides himself and Rodney who'd been subjected to it. Judging by Teyla's expression, she found the tone patronizing.

"Athar will protect her people," Teyla said simply.

John watched Elizabeth's expression turn calculating, her head tipping to the side, her gaze flicking over the delegation. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with us taking hostages," she said slowly.

"They are your guests," Teyla corrected. "They wish to observe every part of this city. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement. I'll just lead them to the infirmary for your people's ritual examination."

"And then we'll talk." The warning note in Elizabeth's voice made it clear this was an order. She looked at John. "Maybe you can find some shoes and jackets for our guests?"

John made a face before he realized what he was doing. They were too strapped for resources to be able to dispose of any clothing, so Supply cleaned the closets of the dead ruthlessly. There was no telling, when you needed a new pair of socks, who had brought them to Atlantis originally.

"Sure," he said, trying to sound friendly. "I'll get on that." And he dragged Rodney along with him. Rodney was red in the face, and John worried he'd explode.

They were two steps into the privacy of the corridor when Rodney rounded on John and stabbed a finger into his chest. "The Abrams-Gall satellite is going to work," Rodney snapped. "That is still our plan for dealing with the Wraith when they show up five hours from now, correct?"

John rubbed at his hair, frustrated. He tried to tell himself that what he felt for Rodney at times like these was aggravation, but he knew he was lying to himself. "I had Bates thinking Teyla's bringing the Wraith down on us and Elizabeth wanting me to go buy a nuke from the Genii, and _yeah_ I thought asking Chaya for help was the saner course of action." He looked away. "We had a Wraith spy on Atlantis," he admitted, and Rodney's jaw dropped in shock. "We caught him and dealt with him," John added hastily, before Rodney could worry. He wasn't going to mention how close he'd been to being fed on. "But he got Bates. I guess he'll live—Carson's hopeful about some kind of Wraith-extract therapy—but not only am I down my head of security, I have to assume that Atlantis is compromised and we'll be fucked if the Wraith make it this far."

"Which they won't," Rodney said. It didn't sound like hyperbole; it sounded as if Rodney was absolutely certain. "Even Redundant-systems-are-my-first-and-middle-name Grodin thinks we've got all the bugs out of the system."

"Great," John said. Then, because it was important to make Rodney understand, he added, "Seriously. I know we ask a lot of the science division, but you guys deliver. We'd be dead ten times over without you." Rodney was staring as if John was as transparent as glass, and John felt his face heat. "It's an honor to serve with you guys, is what I'm saying."

Rodney squinted at him. "Have you been sleeping, Major?" John rolled his eyes. Lying paralyzed in the infirmary had almost been restful, so he figured that counted. "It's going to be okay," Rodney went on, voice quieter, and gave John a wry fond sideways smile. "I find it oddly reassuring to know that you're just as scared as I am, even though you hide it better." He took a deep breath and patted John on the shoulder, awkwardly. "I need to go micromanage Grodin's team. Everything's on them, because if they fail and the city's saved by the divine grace of Athar, my head will literally explode. And that would be unacceptable."

"Yeah," John said, and managed to give Rodney a weak smile before hightailing it away from that painful conversation.

The actual battle, as observed from the control room, was anti-climactic. Grodin reported each kill, to increasingly giddy cheers. The explosions of the three main hive ships took out five of the accompanying cruisers. Four escaped into hyperspace; the one that remained—hyperdrive too damaged to leave, Rodney theorized—made a run at the satellite and managed to cause critical damage to the power conduits before main weapons and Ford's squad of concealed jumpers could take it out.

"But we're good, right," Rodney said. "Peter? Everyone accounted for, life support still on, gravity et cetera?"

After a long moment of silence, too long to account for the lag caused by distance, Elizabeth tapped her own radio. "Peter? Lieutenant Ford?"

"It is not so good," Zelenka said, the reply so swift that John knew this was a delayed response to Rodney. "We have lost—it's too early to know, but I cannot contact Grodin or Liu. Give us... we need some time. And there are darts everywhere. Tell the Major—"

"Got it covered," John told him, trying not to look at Rodney and Elizabeth's faces. _Two more scientists dead_ , he thought, hard helpless anger curling in his stomach. "We've got long-range scanners feeding data to every jumper, they're not going to get through."

And then he took the stairs to the jumper bay two at a time, and made good on that promise.

Twenty hours later, when John finally docked his jumper and staggered out, fairly confident that the Wraith were taken care of, Atlantis had all her people home, the living and the dead. Grodin's body was missing, and one of the priests from Proculus told Elizabeth that Athar had sent him a vision of a star rising in the sky.

Elizabeth, Rodney told John after dragging him onto a side balcony for some private freaking out, believed this meant Grodin had Ascended.

"I hear Ascension sucks," John said. He reached out without thinking, wrapping his hands around Rodney's shoulders, only catching himself after he'd started to lean in. He froze, not sure how to explain that he hadn't believed, deep down, that they were going to survive. He'd been certain the Wraith would come and blow them all out of the water, or a dart would take out his jumper. After learning about Grodin's death, the thought that that could have been Rodney had been dogging him ever since, a perpetual background fear. He'd even had a little monologue in his head addressed to Athar, though he would never consider it _praying_. Desperate bargaining, maybe.

Rodney's hand on his shoulder brought John back to himself, even as he was pulled forward into a hug. All the angles were wrong and neither of them knowing where to put their arms, but was somehow exactly what John had been wanting. Rodney was solid and warm and felt safe.

"Relax," Rodney said, unsubtly moving his other hand out of John's armpit. "Sorry. I'm not Ford," he went on. "I don't think you're going to give me cooties."

"We have this law," John explained, getting Rodney's hair in his mouth. "You know how it is."

Rodney's reply sounded frustrated. "Yeah, I do." He poked the back of John's shoulder, hard. "Seriously, Chaya? What's wrong with you?"

John tightened his grip just a bit. It felt really good to have someone to hang on to. "Should have trusted you more instead of calling for help," he said. "Sorry."

"Not letting you off the hook that easy," Rodney snapped, but John could hear amusement in his voice. He sounded as if he was grinning wide, while one broad hand rubbed reassurance between his shoulder blades.

* * *

Rodney liked Elizabeth and respected her, but sometimes he didn't understand her. Occasionally he knew where the disconnect was—more than a diplomat, she was a people person, and hated the realities of acceptable losses and collateral damage—but sometimes he felt that she was speaking another language. He wished he had a program that made it as easy to translate Elizabeth-to-Rodney as it was now to turn Ancient into passable English.

"I think I know how to negotiate with the Quindosim," Elizabeth told him. She leaned forward, steepling her fingertips under her chin. Her expression was bright and excited, and Rodney's heart sank. The news that more hive ships were on their way hadn't been totally unexpected: Atlantis' position wasn't a secret anymore. But _twelve_ of them arriving in just over a day was unthinkable, and the Abrams-Gall satellite had lost the advantage of stealth. It had the _additional_ disadvantages of not being shielded or mobile, which Zelenka was working hard to overcome, but who knew if his jury-rigging would work. A ZPM would solve... a lot of problems.

Rodney pointed at her. "Not Chaya again." He'd never even been sure John's half-assed plan would have worked the first time.

A faint smile played around Elizabeth's mouth. "Not Chaya," she agreed, and stood up. "Walk with me."

She led the way out of her office and down to the hologram room. Despite his misgivings, Rodney felt a flash of hope. The Ancient database was chaotically organized, and it was possible that despite a team running systematic searches for several hours a day, the _Room where spare ZPMs are kept_ would only turn up in an unexpected location. A cleaning-staff memo, perhaps, or the arrest papers for someone caught making out there with their boss' life-partner.

Except Elizabeth was talking about the Quindosim, and that meant—"We can't offer to trade Ancient knowledge," he blurted out, remembering all the colorful Proculans wandering around in scarves and hand-me-down boots. "Obviously. Seeing as the Brotherhood considers it their sacred duty to hide their Ancestral legacy and had no compunctions about screwing us over to do that."

"But they would negotiate with an actual Ancient," Elizabeth said, breaking into a smile. Rodney wondered how long she'd been without sleep. Aside from the Wraith attack, this was going down in Rodney's book as a freakishly weird day: John Sheppard hugging, Elizabeth going off the deep end.

He watched Elizabeth step up to to the interface console for the holographic teacher. The room lit, and the form of a woman in white appeared in front of them.

"Good day," the woman started, but Elizabeth cut her off before she could begin her spiel on how to use the controls. Rodney was glad for that; not only was it tedious, but he knew just how much power was wasted every second the hologram blathered on. 

"I wish to speak with Ganos Lal," Elizabeth said.

The form of the woman flickered and changed, straight hair curling up, one ridiculous set of glowing white robes exchanged for another, angular features rounding.

Ganos Lal attempted the same explanation, but Elizabeth cut her off just as abruptly.

"Tell Dr McKay what you told me," Elizabeth ordered. "About the Council of Atlantis, Moros, and yourself."

Rodney was tempted to remind Elizabeth that a holographic representation of a woman ten thousand years dead technically had no _self_. She was just an avatar; he'd once had the pleasure of thwarting a science team prank to replace the projected glowy Ancient in robes with Buzz Lightyear.

"Certainly," Ganos Lal said, and stepped to the side as she— _it_ spawned a series of static representations of stern-looking Ancients. The first one, a dark-skinned woman with a humorless scowl, stepped forward. "Jara Say Yoq, head of the budget committee."

Elizabeth coughed, as if repressing a laugh. "Show me Moros."

Jara stepped back into the lineup, and a balding man with a downturned mouth stepped forward. "Moros Bosi was raised in the research station on M7G-677, held several military commands during he war, and became High Counselor five years prior to the final departure to Earth."

"When did he ascend?" Elizabeth asked, and gave Rodney a hard look, as if warning him to stay silent.

"He ascended after many years of meditation," Ganos Lal replied. Her voice had all the passion of an automated teller machine. "As did I."

"You and Moros had many disagreements while on Earth," Elizabeth stated. Rodney assumed she'd covered this ground in her previous conversation. "Tell me the names Moros is known by."

"He was called Myrddin and Merlinus, but most commonly in your language, Merlin." Ganos Lal blinked once, slowly, like a robot simulating human behavior.

Elizabeth half-turned to give Rodney a triumphant look. "How is a ten thousand-year-old teaching tool for children familiar with events that happened after this city was abandoned? How can she have any knowledge of English, of Arthurian legends—of her own fate?"

Rodney hated to stab a pin into the fragile balloon of hope, but.... "Think of all the compressed information we sent to Earth in the databurst—all those videos, mission reports, translations, that incredible amount of data. I'm positive the Ancients were capable of doing the same thing, faster and better while wearing enormous shoulder pads. As soon as Earth opened a wormhole here, it would have been very easy for an automatic system to transmit a data compilation. We weren't looking for anything like that," he added, defensive. "We were a little busy trying not to die at the time."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and tapped her radio. "Control, can you check the power usage logs for the holo-room?"

Rodney braced himself for the bad news. But Chuck's reply was a slightly baffled, "None. The lights are on, but that's about it."

"Ha," Elizabeth said, directing a smug look at the hologram. "Thank you, Control."

"So," Rodney said slowly. "This isn't a hologram. It's an ascended Ancient—"

"Ganos Lal," Elizabeth reminded him. "I believe she's known in legends as Morgan le Fay." She raised her chin as she said that, and the woman blinked as if in consternation before inclining her head. "Ah. My deduction is correct."

Rodney waved that off. Too much about alien races popping up in European and Egyptian folklore made him itch with the sheer stupidity of it all; he hated conceding that pseudoscience rubbish was, in fact, true. "And you want _her_ to manifest to the Quindosim and ask them to hand over the ZPM. Excellent plan," he said, and crossed his arms. "Except that there's this anti-interference policy." Elizabeth opened her mouth, but he talked over her. "And even _if_ she was willing to grant us one wish before being eternally tormented or whatever punishment those on high decide to dish out, _that's_ what you'd ask for? Why not have her wipe out the Wraith ships with pure energy? Why not teach us how to make ZPMs, or use her psychic powers to instantaneously transport Atlantis to another world?" He pointed at Ganos Lal. "If you're going to destroy yourself, do it with more bang, less whimper."

Her reply was interrupted by a familiar, irritating voice on Rodney's radio. _Hey, Rodney,_ John said, sounding cautious. _You know the three gate addresses old Elizabeth gave us that we haven't gotten around to visiting yet?_

"Yes," Rodney snapped. "Been a _little_ busy, Major."

 _We just got hits on our database queries_ John returned, equally short. _I'm putting together three teams, we'll send jumpers as soon as MALP survey results are in._

"On my way," Rodney said, already turning toward the doors. He gave Elizabeth a desperate look, trying to impress on her that this was urgent. "Sheppard's got leads on the ZPMs old-you told us about. Give us—I don't know, enough time to check them out." He pointed at Ganos Lal. "She's our ace in the hole. I know there are a thousand things you want from the Ancients, but she'll only be able to do one, if that, and only if it suits some kind of ascended agenda which humankind won't necessary be savvy to."

Elizabeth bit her lip, and then nodded. "Go."

Rodney ran.

He wanted to argue with John about the so-called teams: one soldier and one scientist was ridiculously short-handed for missions of such potential importance. But John gave a little speech about how Atlantis needed all available personnel, and gave Ford a sharp nod.

"Counting on you to hold the fort," John said, dead serious, before turning back to his teams. "I'm not asking anyone to do anything stupid. Go, grab the ZPM if you can, come back. Don't accidentally turn off planetary shielding or destroy any civilizations. Do not engage the Wraith. If we find a ZPM—" he took a breath and gave Rodney an apologetic glance "– first one goes to Atlantis, second to the Abrams-Gall satellite." Rodney waved a hand, resigned. If the satellite had a ZPM, it could raise its shields, and there was a slim possibility it could take out all the hive ships. But Atlantis would still be left exposed and defenseless, which Rodney conceded would be a bad thing. John blew out a breath. "Safe flying," he said, and turned away, striding toward his jumper with Kavanagh grumbling as he followed after him.

Rodney ended up partnered with Stackhouse, who was reassuringly weighted down with weaponry, but settled in with a crossword puzzle and didn't appear to be interested in conversation. He almost envied Miko, who was burbling Japanese cheerfully to her military escort as she lowered the cargo bay door for takeoff.

The address Rodney'd been given led to a vast swamp, complete with gnarled trees, hanging vines, heavy cloud cover, and insects and lizards and crocodiles oh my. The stargate had probably stood on a platform at one point, but now it was listing to the front, murky water flowing through the bottom of the ring. Rodney pulled the jumper up, shielding to keep tree branches from causing damage. John wouldn't forgive him if he brought the jumper home scratched.

"Looks like Dagobah," Rodney said, trying to make conversation to shut up the little gibbering voice of terror at the back of his head.

Stackhouse grunted and folded his puzzle up carefully, tucking it and his pencil stub into his vest pocket. "Any energy readings?"

Rodney tilted his chin at the HUD. "Checking life signs first, because I still remember the Jurassic Park planet."

Stackhouse didn't look impressed. "And?"

"And—nothing. Or rather, millions of somethings, but they're all under ten kilos, so probably not going to kill us."

"That bug that nearly ate Major Sheppard was small," Stackhouse reminded him. Rodney was glad they were on different teams: he liked people with a sense of humor and who didn't give him flashbacks to his best friend lying dead at the back of the jumper. "And the goa'uld live in lakes, but they can shoot out like a bullet, dig their way into your face, and steal your body." Stackhouse shook his head like a dog shaking off water. ""Fucking snakes."

Rodney wished for the first time that the gene therapy had worked on Kavanagh. Then he would be here on Dagobah and Rodney would be wherever John was, and maybe instead of having a failure to bond over classic films he could ask if John had been going to kiss him, out on the balcony.

He considered it a point of pride that none of John's arsenal of smiles had swept him off his feet: not the flirty ones, or the goofy ones, or the smarmy ones John used as a diversion from the way his eyes scanned for exits. Everyone fell for John. It was kind of sickening, especially since Rodney had to admit John wasn't bad-looking. He had a nice mouth, and strong hands.

But the more Rodney learned about John the more he suspected that the main criteria for being asked to join John's team had been immunity to John's charm. Ford had a strong literal streak. He was a great kid—someone Rodney wanted to have protecting him on strange planets—but he believed the sun rose in the east, C-4 had a detonation velocity of 8,092 m/s, and it was a proven fact, sad though it was, that homosexuality adversely affected military discipline and that the military rules existed for that reason. If John ever came out, Rodney suspected Ford would mentally rewrite their every interaction to paint John in the worst light possible. But for the time being, John and Ford worked well together, and there was zero chance of Ford ever being seduced off the straight and narrow path by the promise everyone else seemed to see in John's easy smiles.

Rodney suspected that Teyla's respect was likewise rooted in a lack of pursuing romantic interest. John treated her as a leader, a team-mate, and a friend, and he liked that instead of blushing or making passes, she regularly beat him to his knees with sticks and told him how narrow-minded his people could be.

And he liked that Rodney argued with him and yelled at him. Or, Rodney supposed, he liked that Rodney considered him capable of holding his own, and didn't treat him like he was just a pretty face. John had some good ideas occasionally, he had to give him that.

Even if that did mean that Rodney ended up hovering over a swamp, trying to mentally weigh whether acquiring a ZPM would be ultimately worth the potential risk of becoming lunch for rodents of unusual size.

"Okay," he said loudly, before Stackhouse could badger him again. "Energy signature about 100km northeast, still no large life signs, also no signs of automated defenses but who knows."

"Super," Stackhouse said, and leaned forward to stare out the front window for the rest of the uneventful flight.

Rodney hadn't worried about finding a dry place to land, but he should have. The energy readings were coming from a domed facility that was covered with vines, and the ground around it was all sucking mud. Fortunately, Stackhouse took the first step out, and after a bit of initial flailing he just looked resigned as the mud oozed up over the tops of his boots. Rodney supposed he'd had professional training that was worse.

"I'll just go inside first and look around," he said, shifting his P90 back to ready position. "I'll give a shout if I need you."

Rodney was torn between protesting Stackhouse's _if_ and the certain knowledge that he'd end up cold, wet, and grumpy if he didn't stay put. "Use your radio," he instructed. "Stay in touch."

Stackhouse just grunted in reply, but maybe that was just with the effort it took to drag his foot free of the mud. His progress was slow, and when he finally reached the dome it took half an hour of impatient instructions before he managed to get the door unlocked.

Rodney paced nervously once he was inside, worrying equally about booby-traps and giant insects. With the back of the jumper left open, the cacophony of jungle insect sounds was loud enough to make Rodney's ears ring, and the humid heat was oppressive. When hailed over the radio, Stackhouse told him twice to hold his horses, and Rodney was on the verge of giving up and ruining his boots when Stackhouse walked out with a ZPM under each arm as casually as if he was bringing beer to a party.

Rodney hyperventilated quietly as he watched Stackhouse slog his way back. He tried not to snatch the ZPMs away too greedily, but he had to touch them to make sure they were real. He had a lot of dreams about things going right for a change, but he'd always assumed that was just his mind taunting him with things he'd never have. Maybe there was hope yet for a Nobel.

The cool, perfect facets of the ZPMs had that familiar slightly-greasy feel to them, like they were wrapped inside shielding as snug as clingfilm. They were heavy and solid, and Rodney set them down on a foam mat with reverence.

"I can't believe it worked," he told Stackhouse, who grinned back, looking goofy, streaks of dirt across his cheeks.

"I don't know if they're still active," Stackhouse cautioned. "They might have been left behind because this was the recycling center or something. But there are five more. Three of them are plugged into some kind of massive machine built into the floor."

Rodney wanted them all. But he wasn't going to be greedy. Not now. "Can you grab two more?" he asked. "Not the ones in the machine, because for all we know those are moving tectonic plates around or controlling the climate or some other process where stopping it would be really, really bad. And when you get back we'll go home as fast as possible." He grabbed his tablet to check the time. "Three for Atlantis, and we should be able to get a jumper out to the satellite before the Wraith arrive."

"If they still work." Stackhouse sounded like a wet blanket, but he was still radiating excitement.

Rodney waved him away. "I'll check, you go." He tried to make that sound as if he wasn't volunteering for the easy job, but he was fairly sure he failed. Still, Stackhouse not being John, he didn't _actually_ roll his eyes before heading back through the mud.

The return to Atlantis was uneventful, but their reception in the control room was everything Rodney had anticipated: applause, cheering, giddy spontaneous jumping around. The smiles didn't even dim when he confessed that none of the ZPMs were more than fifteen percent.

Elizabeth's mouth just curled wider as she said, "Mm, I do like the sound of that plural." She made grammar sound like a filthy innuendo.

Miko's team had found a partially-constructed satellite in orbit around a dead world, but there hadn't been any energy readings, and there hadn't been time to do an exploratory EVA. She theorized that the project had been cannibalized for parts, in last-minute desperation. John had brought back one ZPM, _gently used_ , but the downside was that he'd been shot in the leg, and Kavanagh had been shot in the shoulder, and they'd both been beaten badly by the local people before barely escaping with their lives. Or so Rodney assumed, mentally filling in the details left out of John's terse, skeletal summary with visual evidence.

John stood on the perimeter of the celebration, leaning on his crutch even though he'd been adamant it was _just a scratch_. He had that tight cold look that meant he was bottling up whatever bad thing he'd had to do, and Rodney's eyes kept returning to him. ZPM, John. Elizabeth, John. Zelenka radioing in from the satellite, John.

"Dr Kusanagi's going to deliver your new ZPM," Elizabeth told Zelenka. Rodney saw John wince, undoubtedly thinking that he should be going on that mission. "Be ready to disconnect the naquadah generator and put main shields online when she arrives."

"We will be dancing for joy at that time," Zelenka said, deadpan. "We will do the Macarena."

And that was Rodney's cue to leave, before hip-shaking and arm movements spread through the control room like some zombie virus. He ordered Simpson to plug two of his ZPMs in with John's, and snapped his fingers to get John's attention.

"Chair room," he said. John frowned like he was confused; Rodney snapped again. "It's not like we have all day," Rodney went on, and swept his arm towards the transporter like he was making a royal pronouncement. The frown twisted into a glare, but John straightened, rolling his eyes at Elizabeth to make it clear that he was just humoring Rodney and not actually jumping to follow his orders.

Rodney didn't care. He was glad to get John out of there, and to have him to himself for a short, selfish while.

* * *

In the transporter, John slumped as tension released from his shoulders and back. He felt like if he stopped moving he might fall asleep where he stood. He knew he was dirty from being thrown in the hole on that damn planet, and in need of a shave, but Rodney was _still_ shooting him accusing glances like he was just waiting to find out how John'd smiled himself into another ambush. It was aggravating.

"What?" John asked, sounding snippy to his own ears as he limped out into the corridor. "Stop staring. I'm fine."

"Try not to bleed on the Ancient technology, is all I ask," Rodney retorted, but he looked embarrassed to have been caught out. John gave him a hard look, because _seriously?_ , and Rodney went on the attack. "Carson cleared you for duty, right?"

John paused just long enough to waggle the crutch in a vaguely-threatening reply.

Rodney palmed the door open and made a point of holding it for John to walk through.

"How much time do we have?" John asked, giving Rodney another dirty look to add to his growing collection.

"Until the Wraith get here, or until our now vastly-enhanced power gives out?" John raised his eyebrows, trying to convey that he was at the end of his rope and also, still armed. "Off the top of my head," and Rodney grabbed the nearest tablet and checked just to be sure, "twenty-four hours ETA. Plenty of time for you to take a nap before I need you." He pointed at the chair. "We have enough power to raise shields, and if I had a few months to study up I could probably sink the city again, but whether that would even stop the Wraith from looking for us, I don't know. We have to assume that the Wraith spy—"

"– mentioned the submersion thing, yeah." John winced as he sat down, adjusting his leg with both hands as the chair tipped slowly backwards and lit up. He'd been stupid to engage with the locals on his destination planet—talk about not following his own orders—but Kavanagh had assured him that they were _right on top_ of the ZPM, and John had hoped he'd learned the knack for negotiation from Teyla. Not so much, and he was going to have a scar over his knee to show for it.

Fortunately, Rodney was paying more attention to the online-systems readouts than to John. He looked pretty close to doing the Macarena of joy himself. John thought about joking that Rodney was power-mad, but then didn't. Power gave them much better odds of survival. Which reminded him....

"Think you could spare one of the naquadah reactors?" John asked, twisting up on one hip to watch Rodney zipping through menus on the holographic pop-up display. "And by _spare_ , I mean _detonate_."

Rodney wrinkled his nose without looking away. "Even a twenty kiloton blast wouldn't be enough to stop the Wraith, because—and I'm just being realistically pessimistic here—they are going to _keep coming_. Three hive ships yesterday, twelve tomorrow, they are going to batter us with sheer numbers until we make like the Ancients and run."

John grimaced, because he was thinking the same thing and he really hoped neither of them were developing psychic powers. That would suck. "Elizabeth says we have an Ancient ghost in the system."

"If you ask me," Rodney said, and ignored John's muttered _which I didn't_ , "there's something wrong on the astral plane. People have been begging for the Ancients to help for millennia, and what did they get? Diddly-squat. Teyla's spitting mad about it," he added. "In her own way, which is kind of terrifying to witness. You know what Teyla's like when she's scary."

"Diddly-squat," John repeated, just to be an ass, but he gave Rodney a smirk and Rodney flipped him an easy obscene gesture, so they were still cool. "The way I see things, we can do this without any interference. If we blow the reactor and make it look like we destroyed the city, there wouldn't _be_ any point to the Wraith coming. Not with the 'gate to Earth gone." He sighed, waiting for Rodney to grab the idea and work his magic on it—or tell John how stupid it was. "It would help to sink the city, though," he added plaintively, and gave Rodney a hopeful smile.

"I could cloak it," Rodney said, and then blinked hard, as if he'd been too busy staring at John to pay attention to what he'd been saying. The thought of being the center of Rodney's attention made John's gut twist with yearning or need, one of those hungry emotions that John tried to keep at bay because he had no intention of walking around hollow all the time. "Wait, wait, wait, that might even be _possible_."

Rodney reached for his radio, talking out loud and making notes even as he called Simpson to run the idea past her. It sounded like they could boost a jumper's cloak emitter—having the additional power resources gave them the ability to do that—and possibly raise the cloak around the shield—though John deduced that Simpson was arguing one negated the other. "So run some simulations," Rodney ordered. "Get Kusanagi on the line, she knows jumpers."

"We'll have to blow up a jumper, too," John said as soon as Rodney was off the radio. "Unless you can figure a way to make the reactor hover in the air all by itself." He yawned and stretched, pressing each shoulder back in turn as he raised his arms over his head. He had some bruising on his back; nothing serious, Carson had said, but staying still too long hurt.

"You could have died," Rodney blurted out while John was trying to decide which one of the jumpers was the most expendable. John lowered his arms defensively and turned his head to stare, trying to figure out where the hell that had come from. "Today. I mean—someone shot you."

"Kavanagh needs to learn how to listen," John said darkly. "He thinks he doesn't have to because the SGC's going to turn up any minute now and rescue our asses."

"They don't even have the resources to acknowledge the databurst got through," Rodney said. "I mean—I'm assuming it did, the gate definitely connected to Earth, but things happen, right? Things, as we know, happen regularly and to entire planets. It's not like we didn't know this expedition wasn't the main concern of everyone back in the Milky Way, and what would they even do, send us a postcard?" He looked at John, and John was hit by a dangerous rush of wanting the impossible. "We're all we have and all we're going to get, and we're probably going to die out here, and I am really," Rodney was nearly shouting, and John saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard in an attempt to make himself stop, "really, _really_ scared far too much of the time."

John sat up fast and was on his feet and limping across the room before Rodney could make a coherent protest.

"Didn't mean to scare you," John said, and yanked on Rodney's wrist until he came around to the front of the console. "Jesus, Rodney, don't you know," and John heard his own voice break, desperate to be heard, "for you, if there was anything, you know I—"

"You can't promise you won't die," Rodney said, head tilting to the side, like he was looking at John and seeing something new. John supposed that was about right. Rodney's voice was soft, like someone breaking bad news to a small child. "I can't, either. Twelve Wraith hive ships," and he shook his head in horror of it, of the wide wake of cullings the Wraith were even now carving through inhabited worlds.

"But until then," John said, and tightened his grip, not so hard it hurt, but enough to bring Rodney's focus back to this room and to him, " _until_ the end comes, I'll keep you as safe as I can." He looked at Rodney, and flicked the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, nervous habit. "You have to know how I feel about you."

Rodney's expression morphed into confused puzzlement, and John wanted desperately to yank his last words back. Or failing that, to bash his head into the wall until common sense kicked in.

"Sorry," he managed, a hard lump in his throat, and he made himself let Rodney go and take a step back as understanding spread across Rodney's face. John wasn't sorry, not at all—he regretted many things he'd done in his life, but not falling in love. He ran a hand through his hair, glad that the movement pulled at bruises, needing that edge of physical pain before he could look up and give Rodney a smile for reassurance. "It doesn't matter. Nothing changes."

"I like you," Rodney said, very slowly. "Which is to say, some days I could cheerfully strangle you and no court would convict me because you are just that annoying. I'm ninety-nine percent certain you do it on purpose because you're bored." John tried not to look guilty. "I'm not romantic," Rodney went on. "It makes me itch when people are too nice. I don't want to be alone. I've always thought... having someone to come home to, someone to live for—I want that."

"I don't want to be _convenient_ ," John said. He tried to keep his game face on and not show how much the thought made his stomach do a nauseating roll: that he could have Rodney, have a relationship, have everything except his feelings returned. He took a breath, words catching like needles in his throat. "I did that before. It doesn't work."

"I've just spent months of my life trying _not_ to fall for you, give me a moment here to adjust to the fact that it might actually be okay to want," and Rodney waved at John comprehensively. "I assumed you'd think less of me."

John thought that sounded pretty messed-up, actually, and filed that away as just another sign that the inside of Rodney's head was a strange and scary place. Exasperated, he put his hands up. "We'll talk," and couldn't help that the words came out sounding like a threat. "After the Wraith." And then, because now Rodney had got him obsessing again about all the ways one or both of them could kick it in the upcoming battle, he moved right into Rodney's space, used one finger to tip Rodney's chin up as a warning, and leaned in for a kiss.

Not one of his best kisses, because he'd been punched in the face earlier and kissing hurt, but still so good it made his knees go weak. Rodney kissed back the way he argued, all unexpected angles and points of attack, and taking John's good ideas and making them brilliant—like the way John never knew how or where to touch, but Rodney planted a broad hand at the small of John's back to pull him close and suddenly it was a lot less like a kiss and more like desperate making out. John was backed up against the console and Rodney had a hand in his hair, and John was drowning, everything too much and he still wanted more. 

When Rodney pulled back, John had to grab at him for balance, unsteady on his feet and feeling irrationally bereft.

"Later," Rodney said, looking gratifyingly stunned. "Seriously, not now, there's so much to do, but—John."

"You're speechless, aren't you?" John said, trying to kill the mood gently. He gave Rodney a waggle of his eyebrows as he straightened to standing and tugged his clothes into order. His leg was killing him now. "Cool."

Rodney's eyes narrowed. "Go, sit in the chair, and stop being a distraction."

"Sure," John said. This time, he fell asleep almost right away. He dreamed he was in a truck-stop trying to get a cup of coffee, but for some reason the waitress always walked past him like he was invisible or something. In his dream, he got more and more annoyed, and kept thinking he should just get up and walk out, but he didn't, or couldn't.

He woke in a bad mood, but Rodney forgave him when he explained he'd been dreaming about coffee.

"I get those dreams, too," Rodney said in sympathy. "Sucks." He squinted at John, as if trying to gauge just how much one kiss should change the way they treated each other, and then gave his head a hard shake. John hoped that meant he'd decided not to bother changing anything at all. "Hey—we heard from Ford. He and Teyla managed to get the creepy Wraith supply ship off the ground. It's basically a fragile, hollow shell, but they say it's big enough to hide the satellite from the incoming ships. And Teyla thinks she can leak information about our so-called self-destruct plan."

John sat up. That was a _terrible_ idea. "Without Carson?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure Zelenka and Ford can manage a simple electric shock."

There was nothing about that idea that John liked, but he couldn't think of a better plan off the top of his head.

"I should go see about the jumpers," he said, and got up, suddenly not knowing what to do himself. He wasn't the kiss-goodbye type, but a handshake seemed too distant, and fuck, none of his daydreams about getting together with Rodney had prepared him for the painful awkwardness. He looked at Rodney briefly, and then had to study the floor. He picked up his crutch, hated himself a little for being so bad at this kind of thing, and gave Rodney a firm nod. "See you around."

"Don't touch jumper three," Rodney called, as he was nearly out the door. "We've wired its cloak to the shield emitters. That was the best we could do, but it's not ideal."

John turned around. "Cloaking without a shield _sucks_."

Rodney shrugged, callous. John figured he'd probably been battling with the problem for hours. "Whatever. The shield will still be up at detonation time." He raised his chin at John. "Speaking of which, the reactor's ready to go. Whenever you are."

"Great," John said, and limped off to the transporter. At least his nap had given him more energy to fuel his annoyance.

There was less jubilation in the control room this time when the Abrams-Gall satellite started taking down hive ships. John figured that was because there was no chance in hell they were going to get all of them, and because of Grodin and Liu. The Wraith saw through the ploy of hiding behind the supply ship, though not until after taking some heavy damage. It wasn't long before Zelenka gave the order to pull the ZPM and evacuate to the jumper. They managed to get clear undetected, just as the satellite was ripped apart under heavy fire.

"There are four hives," Zelenka reported. "And many darts and cruisers."

"You did just fine," Elizabeth assured him. "I couldn't have asked for better."

"Teyla says they're worried," Ford cut in. "We're ghosting them. She says they're going all-out for the city."

Elizabeth nodded at John; it was his turn now. "Good. That's exactly what we want them to do."

John didn't like the way the naquadah reactor sat behind him as he took the jumper up. He told himself it was because he was about to destroy millions of US taxpayers' dollars, but he remembered the last time he'd done this, sick with shame at breaking Elizabeth's trust. He'd been walking on glass those first few months, knowing he wasn't the military leader he was supposed to be, having a pretty good idea what people said about him behind his back—and not sure who he was _supposed_ to be. Elizabeth had _had_ his back, but John'd let the respect from his troops that he gained after the Genii attack go to his head. And fucked things up on all fronts.

He'd have to talk to Teyla about the whole leadership thing when this was all done. He didn't feel like he was faking it any more, but he still wasn't comfortable with command.

He parked the jumper right over Atlantis, triple-checked the timer and his breathing equipment, and popped the cargo door, reminding himself that he wasn't afraid of heights. The second jumper was hovering right where it was supposed to be, with its door open, and John tossed the rope over to Stackhouse. When the rope was secure on both ends, he set the pulley and hooked a line to his safety harness. He heard some people liked riding zip-lines for the thrill of it. He bet they'd love doing a jumper-to-jumper transfer up so high that equipment failure would mean a long fall to death.

When the line was dropped and the door shut, John pulled off his mask and took a deep breath. Something about the jumpers always felt comforting to him, like they wanted to keep him safe. Halling asked if he wanted to fly them back home, but John waved the offer off. The Athosians needed the practice, and he... just wanted to sit down for a moment and try to empty his head of everything.

"I think it'll work," Stackhouse offered, settling onto the bench across from John. John gave him a nod, hoping that'd kill the conversation. "I know you and Sergeant Bates don't always see eye to eye," and no, just John's luck that he got a chatty Marine to keep him company.

"That's what I like best about him," John said, just to see if Stackhouse took that the wrong way. There was a flicker but no open disgust in his expression, so John made himself continue. He didn't need to antagonize people who didn't hate him. "I make mistakes. Most of the time I don't know what the hell I'm doing or what I'm walking into. I... respect people who question me. Even if they piss me off." He gave Stackhouse a smile, trying to convey reassurance. "Beckett says Bates'll live, but the Wraith put some kind of drug in his blood that he's fighting. Wish he was up and around. He's a good man to have at your back."

Stackhouse scrutinized John like he was trying to read his mind, and John pointedly looked out the window at the towers they were sweeping towards. Halling was a speed demon, apparently.

"Jumper two, we're raising the shield now," Rodney said, and John had flashes of memory of their earlier kiss, the feel of Rodney's body pressed against his. He wanted this very long day to be over.

"People say that about you, too," Stackhouse said, as the automated landing system locked onto the jumper and pulled it down into the bay. "That they know they can count on you." He shrugged and stood, twisting to crack his back, and then offering John a hand up. "Didn't know if you knew that. Sir."

Getting hauled to his feet by a strapping young Marine made John feel old and decrepit. "I appreciate," John said, and then didn't know how to finish that sentence. He clapped Stackhouse on the shoulder twice, like he was congratulating him on a good pass or something. Thanks be to Athar (or whomever), that was when the jumper slotted into place and the back opened. John commended Halling on his skills and collected his gear and got the hell out.

He was pretty sure model military commanders were not supposed to be embarrassed by their Marines.

Waiting around for the Wraith to turn up on the doorstep was nerve-wracking. Rodney seemed to be hanging onto his cool by overseeing every single operation in the gate room, snapping at everyone if they dared push a button without his permission. Elizabeth was teed off by this—John could read that expression pretty well from personal experience—but seemed to have decided to let Rodney's behavior slide. At least his perfectionism kept everyone too irritated to have hysterics as Chuck called off the proximity readings.

John stuck a hand in his pocket and crossed his fingers as Rodney set the timer and counted down the thirty seconds to detonation.

This time around, Atlantis was protected from the shockwave by its shield, but the city still shuddered as brilliant light lit the gate room up like Vegas.

Rodney didn't even look up, busy on the radio with the jumper cloak team.

"Dropping shields in five, four, three, two, go," and then—nothing.

John looked around. Everyone was braced for assault, but the seconds kept ticking by and still no darts or missiles rained down.

"Are we—?" Elizabeth asked, indicating the central display.

Rodney blinked at her in confusion. "They're scanning the planet," he said finally. As long as they do it from orbit, and don't send down any scouts to smash into our invisible towers, we should be undetectable." He held up a hand. "The only way we'll know if it worked or not is whether they try to kill us."

"Great," someone behind John said. "This, again." It sounded kind of like Kavanagh, and John bit back a retort about how he hadn't even known the people on that planet had had guns, or that they never negotiated with offworlders.

"Why don't you go get a snack," Elizabeth suggested, a hint of steel in her tone. She looked around. "Everyone who's non-essential, thank you for your support, but go, take a break, and then get back to what you're meant to be doing."

Over half of the bystanders took the opportunity to disappear, looking both nervous and sheepish.

Elizabeth glanced at John, and then gestured to a vacated chair. "Sit," she suggested. "I think we're in for a—"

"Incoming wormhole," Chuck reported, as the chevrons on the gate began engaging, and John was immediately on his feet.

"Shut it down," he ordered, almost perfectly in sync with Rodney. John whirled, hoping Rodney had all the answers. "Can the Wraith detect gate activity?" He felt sick horror, remembering the culling he'd witnessed with Teyla. "Is that the Wraith dialing in?"

Rodney threw his hands up. "I don't know, how would I know, did I somehow develop psychic powers in my sleep-deprived state?" He jabbed at the console, sending the proximity data to the main screen. "Are they firing on us? Spitting out darts? Moving into position?" He rounded on Chuck again. "Gate, off, now."

"It won't—" Chuck started, but the second the gate engaged it flickered off. He slumped back in his chair. "Disengaged." 

"Huh," Rodney said, and dove into the data on his computer.

Elizabeth looked at John and cocked an eyebrow. "Huh," she repeated, inviting him to share her amusement, and then gestured towards the screen. "They don't seem to have noticed."

John nodded, jerky with the adrenaline rush. "I'm going to sit down now," he told her, and did so.

He got nearly a full minute of rest before Rodney was back in action mode, face lit by a wide grin. "It's Earth. Or rather, Sam Carter. I guess she figured out the data compression algorithm. Good for her," he said, with a supercilious note of pride that made Elizabeth wince. With a flourish, Rodney sent the video to the corner of the main screen.

 _Good to hear from you, Atlantis,_ Sam said. She looked tired, but she smiled at the camera. _Dr Weir, Major Sheppard, Dr McKay. You can imagine what a surprise it was to get your messages. I only wish,_ and she looked down at the table in front of her, _that we were in any position to help. Unfortunately, Earth has come to the attention of a sect of Ascended Ancients who're... well, they're quite the threat. I'd tell you their name, but then you'd think about them, and they'd find you._ She gave the camera a wry look. _If you get this message, I know that's not what you were wanting to hear. We are all hoping you survive this encounter, and that the Wraith don't find a way to Earth. I hate to ask it of you, after your sacrifices and struggles, but—we need you to hold the Wraith off as long as possible._

"Already done," Rodney said, crossing his arms and giving the image of Sam a smug look as the video cut out.

"Is that it?" Elizabeth asked, sounding perplexed. "That's all?"

Rodney opened one hand. "There are files addressed to individuals, mail and things, some hush-hush secret stuff for your eyes only, but yes. That seems to be the gist."

Elizabeth sighed and nodded, and Rodney was already protesting, "No, no, no," before she opened her mouth.

"You know it's the right thing to do," Elizabeth told him firmly. "I'm not proposing we send all five ZPMs back, but we can manage with three. Considering up until now we've got by with none."

"We had a naquadah reactor up until today," Rodney snapped, but John could tell his heart wasn't in the argument. Elizabeth stared at him. "Fine. But we open the wormhole just long enough to send them through, because we really don't have enough power to waste on inter-galactic calls, and anyone who goes back to Earth is probably going to get stuck there."

Elizabeth nodded in thanks. "I hear you," she said, and then her eye was caught by the flashes of light on the main screen. "What's that?"

"They're jumping to hyperspace," Rodney said, and bounced up on his toes. "They're leaving. We're not dead. And we're probably not going to die today." He stared at John, his eyes rounding, and John winced. He could sense a crash coming. "John," Rodney started, and that was John's cue.

"Keep an eye out for darts, subspace signals, and Wraith," he told Chuck, and grabbed Rodney by the elbow. "I'm going to put our physicist to bed before he faceplants into the the control panel and blows something up."

"He's earned his rest," Elizabeth said, relief making her indulgent, John guessed. "Go on, then."

* * *

As soon as John got Rodney out in the corridor and away from everyone, Rodney grabbed him and kissed him hard enough that his toes curled in his shoes. He had a strong irrational compulsion to know that John was still breathing, and this way seemed most expedient. Plus, he was giddy with joie de vivre or whatever, and he wanted to share.

"Not here," John said, breaking off the kiss and looking frustrated as he pushed Rodney towards the transporter.

"Says the man who's leaning all over me," Rodney protested, and then gave John a suspicious look. "You lost your crutch, didn't you?"

"All the better to grope you," John said. The grin he gave Rodney as he the transporter doors slid shut was probably supposed to look predatory, but it failed spectacularly.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "If it isn't the big, bad dork. What kind of perverse fairy tales did you grow up with?" he asked, and pulled John out as soon as the doors opened. "Just so we're clear," he went on, looking carefully up and down the corridor as they walked, to make sure he wasn't overheard, "I don't think you're convenient. But you're worth the effort."

John rolled his eyes. "Great. That makes me sound like walnuts. Very romantic."

"I don't do romance," Rodney reminded him, and palmed his door open. Inside, his room was just as cluttered as always. If he'd been able to plan this, he'd have at least kicked his dirty laundry under the bed. "I don't want to think about doing this without you. I don't want to be in a world without you. I want you to still be driving me just as nuts twenty years from now." He turned and gave John a hard look. "I want to be the only person you smile at like you're trying to get them in bed."

John nodded once, slowly, eyes focused down and to the side, like he was considering, and Rodney wondered for a horrible moment whether he should have said something else, whether John wanted good solid cliches instead of honesty. But then John raised his head, eyebrows up, and gave Rodney a speculative once-over before cutting his eyes towards the bed. And smiled.

"There really aren't words to express how much I hate you," Rodney burst out, and John's smirk widened.

"Come on, you like me a little," John protested, and moved in close. He put his hand on Rodney's shoulder—to steady himself, Rodney suspected—and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Maybe a little." Another kiss followed the first, and then another, insistent and persistent and annoying. "What do _you_ want?"

John shifted so his mouth was right over Rodney's. "Everything you said." This kiss was soft and light as their lips met and parted, and then deepened into desperation. Rodney felt he was being entrusted with a great secret, spoken of only in the way John touched him, the way his eyes slid closed, the gentle touch of fingers carding through the hair at the back of his neck. "No one's going to come running to our rescue," John said, lowering his head to kiss along Rodney's jaw, and it took Rodney a moment to parse that for some reason John was talking about Atlantis. "Maybe never. But we'll be fine." And now he was trailing bites down Rodney's neck, like he was trying to get his attention. "We have each other."

Rodney thought that sounded like a line from a bad teenage vampire movie, but then again his day job _was_ a vampire movie. Maybe John thought it was appropriate. Maybe John wasn't any better at romance than he was. It was probably something they could work on together, Rodney decided, and used his hip to bump John unsubtly over to the bed.

* the * end *


End file.
